Angel's In The Morgue
by ggmaxwell
Summary: TRIGGER WARNING! Woody was a good guy with a good life, but every went down hill when he started hearing voices that where demanding him to do things he didn't want to and he was getting scared. Rated for dark theme and hints of depression and other mental illness.


Hello, it's me again. Doing another crossover. I can't help myself, I have so many ideas, and Supernatural is just one of those series that you can add to anything and it would work. So I thought I'd take a whack at it.

Disclaimer: That being said, I came up with this idea while marathoning Psych and Supernatural back to back, because apparently, I have no life. I do not own any of the characters depicted in this work of fiction. They belong to their creators and writers and producers. This is just something that goes through my head and I decided to put on the internet. I am in no way making any money for this fiction or receiving any benefits. Thank you and have a good day.

Now then, on with the fic.

Title:

Angels In The Morgue

Dr. Woodrow "Woody" Strode was had a good life. Sure his wife and he had recently divorced, and sure he spent a majority of his day smelling things that really should just stay in the bodies he examined. He worked in a morgue and spent a serious amount of his time with dead people, and really needed some social interaction.

Sure, every so often he got a visit from the police chief and detectives that worked in the precinct. But mostly those where for ob-Topsy reports and cause of death meetings. Someone trying to figure out who the poor people he worked on where killed by. Their eyes all on him as he told them the how and when, and sure that was fun for the time. But then they would flutter off to solve their cases and arrest the bad guys, no one really sticking around to talk and see how he was doing.

Every so often, he would get a visit for the precincts resident psychic and his weak constitution-ed friend. He did enjoy those talks, the quick banter with the casual acceptance of Woody's odd habits and sense of humor. He liked those guys a lot, he really did. But even though they got along well, they never really invited him out for a drink or a comic book convention, or a movie.

It was this very lonely life style that cause Woody to think the voice he started hearing was, in fact, his own imagination. He didn't have a history of schizophrenia in his family, and as far as he knew, he never had any tendency towards hallucinations or voices. Unless of course he was on something. But he hadn't done that since college, and during his divorce.

At first he excepted the voice during the day while he worked. It helped to alleviate boredom and made him feel like he wasn't alone.

It wasn't just a one-sided conversation either. The voice would talk to him, get to know him. In return, the voice spoke back, telling him about himself. Telling him about his job and what he had to do to save the world. It told him that his name was Zachariah and all about the stress he was under to convince others to do the same and how strict his bosses where. Woody found it all interesting, the voice gave himself a back story and spoke like he was a fully sentient being, with worries and problems. The only thing that was weird about the voice's story was the Apocalypse part and how he needed Woody's help to stop the end of the world. Yeah, like that was real. He was just a corner, nothing special about him at all. Just your average guy trying to make a living. If it had been Shawn and Gus, or even Carlton, he might believe that story a bit more.

But as the weeks passed, the voice became more insistent. More demanding, and angry. Very angry.

He thought about going to a psychiatrist to get help for his problem. But the voice told him that was a bad idea the moment he thought it. It told him there was nothing a doctor could do about the voice, this was in his blood, and he was the only one. It also pointed out what would happen if he did. The news would get back to the precinct, they would find out he wasn't sane anymore, and he would loose his job. His career going down the drain, and, lonely as he was, Woody loved his job. He needed his job, and did not want it to end.

The voice however, was starting to become a bigger problem. It would disrupt his work to demand his help. It would wake him up in the middle of the night screaming at him to help. It would barge in on his reports and make him loose his train in thought.

Woody would have had no trouble agreeing to help Zachariah at all. If it weren't for what the voice wanted him to do. It wanted him to surrender his body, and become a vessel to the voice, it telling him it had to use it in order to exist on this plain, on in this demention. Whatever that meant. But Woody was hesitant, on the off chance that it could be real, and the thing was evil and would use his body to murder someone. Disappointing all of the friends he had made here.

The voice, however, became more demanding as time went by. Talking, no yelling at him, at all hours of the day, affecting his work even more. Penetrating his dreams with a bright light and a booming voice, so big Woody would wake up to the windows in his apartment completely shattered. The cost of repairs seriously messing with his bank account, and making the insurance companies suspicious, and labeling him a 'liability' and cancelling his service.

"LET ME IN!" The voice would command every hour of every day. "YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. THIS IS WHAT YOU WHERE BORN TO DO. IT IS YOUR DESTINY. YOU CAN NOT DENY ME MUCH LONGER."

Woody was starting to become scared. So he went to the one person he believed could help and be quiet about the whole thing. The one person he knew who had experience with stuff like this, and a person he could trust to be completely honest. He went to Shawn.

He explained his situation to the psychic, while Shawn listened with a passive, hard to read, but by no means judgmental face. He listened as Woody explained the voice and what it demanded of him. How it was affecting his work, and his sleep. How he was starting to get scared of the voice.

Shawn did a few test, that Woody couldn't quite understand. He performed a seance to see if any ghost might be haunting him. Asked him a few questions about how he'd been feeling before the voices started, if he felt guilty about anything. He asked him if he'd suffered any childhood tragedy that caused him to blame himself for any death. If he'd ever been hit in the head, like really hard.

Woody answered all his questions, telling him that he's had a normal childhood. There where no tragedies that he knew off. He'd never been hit in the head, at least not that hard. He'd been punched a few times in his youth, and fallen a good couple of times. But never enough to cause any kind of damage, he knew he'd been checked out.

After everything was said and done, Shawn recommended him to a psychiatrist and gave him his mothers number. Saying the spirits weren't telling him anything, and that it must be caused by stress.

"I don't know what to tell you buddy. The spirits are silent. Just take it and see if it helps. Maybe take some time to yourself. I know Lassiter sometimes gives me the heebies and think I'm hearing things." He had said, handing Woody a slip of paper and sending him out with a pat on the back.

Woody didn't buy that. Sure his job was demanding, but not really that stressful. He loved it and went to work everyday with a smile on his face. He put in a request for a vacation, however, just in case.

That, however, yielded no results. He came back tired and irritated. Getting no sleep and no rest from the voice. If anything, it bothered him more, completely unrelenting in it's demands, telling he was running out of time.

Woody had tried asking, why him, why not someone else?

The voice merrily answered, there is no one else. It's in his blood, for generations. His family's bloodline being the reason it has to be him. He was born for this and it's his destiny. The purpose for his birth.

It was another week before the voice resorted to threats. Telling him that if he didn't comply, bad things where going to happen. His life was going to crumble apart, and everybody he knew was going to get hurt. Woody didn't want to believe him, and he didn't, at first.

But then it started. First, a co-worker he really liked, one who was always nice to him, had been killed in action. Then he received the news that a family member had come down with severe lung cancer, though he hadn't had any simptums until the previous week. The one of the few people in the precinct he considered friend had been poisoned. More and more murders started coming through the morgue, some of them, people he knew. A waitress he had talked with one night after work was killed by her ex-boyfriend. A man he'd had a lengthy conversation with on skull fractures and bruising after death, had been hit by a car. An officer he'd had an affair with had been killed by inmate in his attempt to break out.

Woody was starting to believe him. Every night the voice would come to him, telling him it was his fault. That they could have all been spared had he just let the voice in. It told him that more deaths will come, more people hurt because he was being selfish. He couldn't take it anymore, when he went home he would dissolve into a puddle in his living room and completely fall apart. He would do everything he could to keep it together at work, giving his reports with no problems. Then, when everyone left and he was alone, the lights would flicker, and he would curl into a corner, hugging himself, trying to shut out the voice.

But no matter how hard he tried, it would not go away. Ever second he was alone, the voice would be there. When he was talking with his co-workers, it would be there. Never letting up, he was starting to think it would be better to just do as the voice said, at least it would end the misery.

At those thoughts, the voice would be kind, telling him that was the right way to think. That it was the right choice to make. It would praise him and speak genitally to him, comforting. But then he would go back to his original thought that the voice could be manipulating him, and making him, and just wanted to use him to kill people, or do bad things to others.

Then the voice would get angry again. Yelling at him, making him feel horrible about himself and threatening him. He was loosing this fight, and the voice new it. It would lay into him worse, never giving him a moment of peace and quiet. Every minute of everyday, constantly yelling at him.

Then, one night, after 72 hours straight, with no sleep. Being forced to call in sick, because he couldn't concentrate on anything but the yelling. The voice never letting up and never getting softer, but getting louder and louder, and angrier. More intimidating and threatening.

Woody finally snapped. He wasn't proud of it, he wasn't happy at all. But he couldn't take it anymore. He'd gone into the kitchen and gotten a knife from the drawer. Putting the knife to his wrist, the voice spoke to him.

"You really think that will help you? It won't, I'll just bring you back to life, I have that power. It's pointless. Your only hope is to do as I say." Zachariah had told him condescendingly.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" He asked, sobbing.

"Let me in. Do what you are here for. Then all this will go away. I can even put you in a dream so close to reality, you would believe you where actually living it. It could go on as if you never knew any of this. Your life would be normal again, and you would have no idea what is going on around you." The voice almost crooned, soothingly to Woody. "And when I've finished my mission, I'll leave. I'll go back to my home, and you will live out the rest of you life in peace. If you wish, I could even take your memory for the past few months so you would never even know I exist." The voice finished. Woody feeling a gentle light tickling at his face, almost feeling fingers running through what little hair he had left.

It sounded wonderful. Almost too good to be true. He could return to life as normal, without remembering the horrible curse he had been given. But then is conscience kicked in, to his ire.

"You won't kill anyone, will you?" He asked, he needed to know. He didn't want anyone to be hurt because he couldn't take the voice.

"Of course not. At least not anybody good and innocent. Just the evil beings, the demons that fight against us. I am trying to save the world after all." The voice reassured softly.

"Okay, you can do it. I'm tired of fighting. I'm ready, just take me." He whispered, defeated.

What happened next, Woody would be hard pressed to describe as he was hit with a extremely bright, soft blue light. He felt a warmness as whatever it was that had been torturing him for the past few months, entered him. He felt the warmth spread from his head to his toes, filling every inch of him completely. The warmth then started to grow bigger and fiercer. Hot, too hot, it was excruciating. He screamed in pain, it was agony as the heat and strength of the being took over more and more of his form.

Then, as quickly as it started, it was gone. He was sitting in the morgue, and fresh body sitting in front of him, just waiting to be examined. He smiled, thinking his life was a good one. Lonely, but good, as he grabbed a knife and started to cut apart the cadaver. His movements practiced and smooth.

He gave his report to Chief Vic, chuckling slightly at the name. Thinking the irony was lost on someone so serious, and went home. Wondering what he was going to do for dinner that day.

He came in the next morning, to another cadaver, killed in the same way as the last. He told the detectives on the case everything he could get from the body, adding a few jokes for color, only Shawn laughing as his partner sat in the back, making gagging noises and trying to pass them off as just coughs.

Yeah, his life was fine, and routine. Nothing was wrong with it at all.

Six months after the missing persons case for Woodrow 'Woody' Strode was called off. A report had been filed of loud noises at an abandoned warehouse in California, not to far from Santa Barbra. When police entered the scene, they discovered the place empty. Except for a few bodies.

One, of the missing Coroner for the Santa Barbra police department.

The police suggested serial murders trying to make a name for themselves, as all the victims had wings burnt into the ground spreading from their back. The coroner's head, showing signs of a sharp knife, or sword being impaled through the man's chin and up through his skull.

But try as they might, no matter how hard they looked, or how many laws and procedures where broken trying. Santa Barbra's resident psychic, his best friend, and two very involved detectives could not find the murderer.

Well, there you have it.

Hope you enjoyed, though I'm not sure that's the kind of feeling this story would provoke, I went to a very dark place.

Let me know what you think.


End file.
